


Because

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulcans are bizarre creatures, some more so than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The bar’s full, so he sits at a booth, sipping down blue synthehol and wondering what exactly he’d have to do to obtain the real thing. If he brought the right chemicals himself and mixed them in, Guinan would probably look the other way. In the meantime, at least he has Shore Leave scheduled in a month, and whatever station they happen to reach will surely have a bar—they always do. 

He’s mid-sip when his table’s approached. He expects Deanna or Data—they both have the same off-periods as him during this mission, and none of them have much to do for it. As a rule, Will’s friendly with nearly everyone aboard, but the bridge crew are the only ones he’s truly close to. 

The shadow that falls over his table doesn’t belong to a senior officer. Will looks up and puts his drink down, but it takes a second to place the stoic figure before him. There aren’t many Vulcans aboard the Enterprise, and that’s one of the few reasons Will manages to remember, “Ensign Taurik.”

“Commander Riker,” Taurik greets, dipping his head once in a respectful bow. He stands at attention with his hands rigidly behind his back, trim figure dressed in the crisp golden uniform of Engineering. In the passing light of the starry deck, his youthful features bear an attractive glow. But then, Will has yet to meet an unattractive Vulcan. Glancing at the empty booth, Taurik asks, “May I sit with you?”

Will’s surprised, to say the least. Ensigns aren’t usually brave enough to approach a first officer, though if he were to ask, he doubts Taurik would think courage anything to do with it. Partially because he has nothing better to do and partially because he isn’t in the habit of turning attractive company away, Will says, “Sure,” and gestures to the other side.

Taurik doesn’t take the other side. He slips smoothly onto the same plush bench as Will, scooting up right beside him. It causes Will to lift his eyebrows, but Taurik, naturally, acts as though this is perfectly commonplace. He has the faint scent of espresso to him—another surprise. Even on its duller missions, there’s always something unusual aboard the Enterprise, and apparently, Will’s found it.

Taurik begins immediately, his voice level but quiet enough not to carry far, “I have observed you offering advice of a certain nature to various colleagues in the past. Please excuse me if I overstep, but I wish to solicit this advice.”

More confused than ever, Will notes, “I believe Geordi’s your superior officer; he’d probably be a better choice.” He knows he has offered help to ensigns before, but he doesn’t usually go out of his way to. And he certainly can’t match Geordi on engineering knowledge.

But Taurik smoothly replies, “This is not a work-related matter. I have carefully considered my options, and I believe you are the best choice, as well as my personal preference, for whom to seek instruction from.”

“Now you’ve got me curious.” But not particularly surprised anymore. If it’s some social advice, he knows he has a reputation for his aptitude. It’s well earned enough, and would probably seem particularly so to a closeted Vulcan. 

Taurik clasps his hands together on the table. They’re long, lithe, and pale, like the rest of him. His dark eyes look directly into Will’s, his sleek hair swept perfectly across his forehead. He takes a moment’s pause, and for that short span of time, Will wonders, as he so often does when facing slanted eyebrows and tipped ears, what it would be like to bed a Vulcan. It’s a harmless interest, but he doesn’t let the question grow any further. Finally, Taurik announces, “I have decided that if I am to remain within a largely human crew and intend to thrive in the similarly populated Federation, it is only logical to adapt to some of their social customs. Namely, I wish to know how to kiss.”

Will blinks. He repeats numbly, sure he’s heard wrong, “Kiss?”

Taurik inclines his head again in a human nod, adding, “I understand if you do not wish to engage in such behaviour with me, but I deemed it an acceptable risk to ask.”

“You want me to teach you how to kiss,” Will bluntly rephrases. Taurik simply continues to look at him with the same blank stare as before, evidently having said just that. Stunned doesn’t begin to describe how Will feels. 

He’s been propositioned in bars before, of course. Even a few times in Ten Forward. But usually by alien guests from more open cultures, and not Vulcan ensigns who phrase it in the form of education. 

He can’t help but do a second sweep of Taurik. Will doesn’t have a set ‘type’ anymore—he’s enjoyed a variety of differences from all over the quadrant, and physical appearance has become a very small part of the sexual game. Yet Taurik is classically handsome and well suited for this, only slightly smaller than Will and well built; they would likely fit well together beneath the sheets: an easy match. Of course, Taurik hasn’t asked to go that far. Will asks, “What do you know already?”

“May I demonstrate?” Taurik says it so simply, as though they aren’t in a very public place from two very different walks of life. If Taurik were any closer to Will’s command structure, he’d say no in a heartbeat. But Taurik _isn’t_ his underling, beyond the sense that everyone on the Enterprise is, and he’s certainly had his fun in Ten Forward before for all to see. It’s a well-known off-duty spot, and recreation—to a certain extent—is encouraged. Apparently, Taurik has taken that to heart, rather than the usual Vulcan conservatism. 

Will finds himself saying, “Proceed,” like instructing an officer on a mission.

He doesn’t know what he expected. Perhaps a quick peck on the cheek. Instead, Taurik throws an arm suddenly around Will’s broad shoulders, like copying the example of a bad romance film. He shuffles impossibly closer, so that their thighs tough, and he leans in to Will, tilting his face and lowering his lashes, his bow lips still sealed shut. He presses them squarely on Will’s mouth and applies just a fraction of pressure, holding there for what feels like precisely two seconds. 

Then he straightens back out, quite as stiff as ever, with his arm still draped over Will’s shoulder. 

There was no feeling in it. Taurik is more appealing than ever, touching Will in so many places—something he thought would be forbidden to a Vulcan. He likes that Taurik breaks the mold of his people, though it’s all very strange. A peripheral sweep of the room shows no one watching them—the view from their booth to the back of the lounge is empty, though there’s a low buzz of conversation behind them. Taurik looks at Will blankly, perhaps awaiting evaluation.

Lifting a hand to stroke at his beard, Will slowly reports, “That was... unexpected. You’ve clearly given this some thought. But, uh... you’ve got to put more oomph into it.”

“Oomph?” Taurik repeats, lifting an eyebrow. It’s clear that he doesn’t understand. Instead of asking Will to clarify, he suggests, “Perhaps you could show me how it should be done?”

Will’s hands move on their own to oblige.

He turns sideways to face Taurik properly, which displaces Taurik’s arm off his shoulders, but allows him to toss his own around the back of the booth. His other arm he brings before Taurik, his fingers curling under Taurik’s strong jaw, his thumb pressing into Taurik’s chin. He draws Taurik forward, tilting so their noses are just side-by-side, and he opens his mouth to run his tongue lightly over Taurik’s bottom lip. 

When he presses at the seam of Taurik’s mouth, it parts for him, and he lets his tongue slip inside. Taurik’s tongue is frozen in the middle, not moving, but when Will prods at it, it goes where he pleases. Taurik lets Will fill his mouth and swirl his tongue around, the two of them held together. It’s an odd, quiet kiss, soft and pleasant tasting, languid and unabashed. A wriggling feeling in the back of Will’s head questions if he should be doing this, but he crushes it down because it’s been too long, and he works hard enough to earn a good kiss here and there. In most Federation cultures, a kiss is harmless enough, even with tongue. And Taurik asked him, one man to another. As Will claims his mouth, Taurik’s icy veneer slowly cracks. 

The first time he pushes his tongue back against Will’s, it isn’t tentative but isn’t strong; simply a pupil emulating their master. Will nips at Taurik’s bottom lip to encourage it, and Taurik makes a short, pleased sound, just slightly more restrained than a whine. He puts more pressure into pushing back, rising into it. Will’s fingers unveil from his jaw to slip around his neck, back into his straight-laced hair, thumb rising to trace the subtle curve of one elegantly pointed ear. There’s something particularly stimulating about the touch—almost like a subtle spark of electricity. He’s reminded belatedly of touch-telepathy, but Taurik makes no note of it. Taurik seems to be concentrating on adapting his mouth to match Will’s talented ministrations. 

Will pulls back when they’ve gone on too long and the remembrance that this too open catches up with him. He watches Taurik’s dark eyelashes slowly lift, pupils maybe over-dilated and cheeks perhaps a tad more green than usual. Taurik admits in a vaguely husky voice, “I can see the appeal.”

Grinning, Will lets his hand slide out of Taurik’s hair. He shouldn’t get involved beyond this with an ensign, but he can’t help but wonder what Taurik would look like properly tousled and flushed, adorned with bedroom eyes. Will says diplomatically, “I’m sure Vulcan kissing has its own appeal.”

Where Will’s hand has returned to the table, Taurik’s suddenly places over it. Taurik holds his index and middle finger together and sensually draws them over Will’s knuckle, down the slope to Will’s wrist, stroking warmly before sliding back and along each of his fingers. The spark is back, and Will finds himself staring at the contact. He feels vaguely like he’s being seduced, and it’s working. Taurik quietly muses, “Perhaps there is merit in both cultures.”

Will’s just about to cross the distance to kiss both ways at once when another officer walks around the corner. Smiling her rouged lips, Deanna greets, “Will.” Just as her eyes spot Taurik, his hand slithers off Will’s, falling below the counter. “Ensign Taurik, is it?”

“Councilor,” Taurik returns. His posture’s become rigid again, Will’s arm around the booth the only remaining sign of their dalliance. 

Deanna asks, “Am I interrupting?”

In a way. But William looks to Taurik before answering, and Taurik says, “No. Commander Riker was simply instructing me on human customs.”

As Deanna slips into the seat across from them, she notes playfully, “He is an expert.” Will can’t tell from the twinkle in her eyes if she knows what they were doing or not, but she’s certainly caught him having too much fun in Ten Forward enough to not rule it out. Deanna’s still settling while Taurik slips back off the bench, straightening out at their side. 

Before he can leave, Will finds himself saying, “If you want more lessons, my door’s always open.” He can never seem to waste a good opportunity.

Taurik lifts an eyebrow. He responds, “Curious. I would think that you would wish it closed for such matters as I was attempting to imply.” He certainly looks as though he finds humans baffling, although he’s left Will with plenty of questions in return. Will doesn’t bother correcting the misinterpretation of his phrase—he does that enough with Data.

As Taurik makes his leave, Deanna asks, “What was that about?”

Will just sighs, “Vulcans,” and reaches for another sip of synthehol.


End file.
